Used To Be
by Apocalyptic-Mess
Summary: "I miss him already." The statement twists his heart and chest in a million different directions, pulling him between immeasurable sorrow and immense fury. "Me too." AU


**Used To Be**

The first time he _really_ sees her is at the funeral. She's prettier than he expected, than he remembers from all his long distances visits to Stanford, but he is proud of his brother. Proud that his little geeky brother had been able to snag a woman as beautiful as this one standing painfully sad in front of his brother's casket.

It was a sad sight to behold, the beautiful girl holding a single white flower—a daisy maybe, or a carnation, he doesn't really know. Sad, and just a bit frustrating. She's just standing there, completely silent and still. No smile, no frown—nothing.

She doesn't shed a tear.

The sky is gray that day, as if it was reflecting the collective mood of the group. There's no sunshine, no light breeze. Everything about the day feels cold and heavy and bleak. Like death.

He stands back, hidden by a dense shroud of shrubbery about fifteen feet from the group. He can't approach the site, can't stand to look at the thing dooming his brother to an eternity underground. All he can think about are the late night talks, days spent on the road, taking care of each other as their father took off for weeks at a time. He hasn't stopped crying since he'd gotten the call and those two words had sealed his fate.

Yet this girl couldn't even shed a tear for his brother. Not _one_.

It makes him angry. This woman thinks she knew his brother? Thinks she'd cared for him? How can she think that and _not even look sad_? He feels like walking up to her, maybe hugging her, but mostly he wants to slap her—slap her because then maybe she'd feel a little of the pain he's feeling right now. She doesn't deserve to be emotionless. She hasn't earned that right.

He knows he hasn't either, but at least he tried. Tried to fix whatever broken thing was between them. He'd called every so often—sometimes on special occasions, usually when he's drunk—and even though his brother hadn't picked up the phone, _he'd tried_.

As he watches, someone gently guides the girl to her seat in the front row (the seat where _he_ should be sitting); she slumps onto it awkwardly, like her legs have given out and her body just drops.

He knows exactly how she feels at this moment—the heaviness in her bones, the difficulty of every forward step, how badly she wants to just fall down and not bother to get up again.

There's something so emotionally draining about having to stand here and watch this all play out, even if no one knows he's there. He has yet to even glance at the thing containing his brother—no, not his brother. His brother's _body_.

Nothing more.

Even the thought causes a pain so deep and so threatening inside him that he clutches at his chest, using the tree he stands next to as a support to keep himself standing.

It's an irrational reaction. He knows it isn't his brother in the coffin. The corpse lying in that box doesn't have anything in common with his brother. His brother laughed. His brother talked. His brother smiled.

His brother breathed.

It doesn't make the information any less agonizing.

For a second, when the grief is too immense to be ignored but not enough to drown everything out, he glances at the box. It almost makes him laugh, thinking of his brother's reaction if he'd been there. His brother would have preferred a plywood box—hell, he'd have been happier rolled up in a shower curtain than residing in that thing, all solid oak and gold fastenings.

The way the girl is looking at the casket tells him that she'd had no say in the arrangements, and she's probably thinking along the same lines as he is.

His brother would have hated this.

He can remember hunts and hotel rooms, conversations at the age of thirteen about how they'd want to die. _No one should be concerned with death when they're that young_, but it's just a thought. One that his father never cared to hear. When his brother had been very young, he'd asked to be buried beside their mother; years later he'd say throw me in a river. After that it was burn my body and throw my ashes in the ocean, while weeks before he'd left for Stanford, it had been burn my body in a dumpster and leave me there.

Now, he realized, there was no dignity in that, but it was what his brother had wanted. Ever preferable to a funeral where people cried over an empty box and the food wasn't even that good. The world be damned if he wasn't going to do this _one_ last thing for his brother.

Even here, everyone sheds just the right amount of tears for a man they never met, eyes either focused on the ground or on the priest. No one looks at the casket. No one but the girl in the front row. A man and a woman, who he assumes to be the girl's parents, try and lay a comforting hand on her shoulder, but the girl shrugs it off, not once looking up.

Seconds, minutes, hours later—he doesn't really care to tell—the priest finished talking, and an appropriate amount of time later people begin to leave. The figures in the back walk away first; they're the ones who dry their eyes as soon as they turn away. Everyone else leaves periodically after that. It takes fourteen minutes for the girl in white to even try standing. Once she does, she steps forward to place the flower on the casket and then turns around. He's the first thing her eyes catch on. Knowing green-eyes say that she recognizes him, but he wouldn't know from where. She freezes for a moment; neither of them moves, staring at each other with unreadable expressions.

It's like that for almost a full minute before the girl takes a wary step towards him. Another. He doesn't move an inch; he doesn't think he has the strength to. Doesn't know if he wants to. Even now he feels like taking a step back or breaking eye contact and walking away. A good plan in theory, not so good when you can barely feel your legs.

When she reaches him neither know what to say. He doesn't know what his brother shared about him; she doesn't know if his brother ever mentioned her.

She pauses, undoubtedly waiting for any condolences he might wish to offer her. For a moment, he can't believe her. He doesn't owe her _anything_. She thinks she knew who his little brother was? She thinks she knew the man better than him, his own _brother_?

He hates her—because she's probably right.

None of it really matters anymore, because his _brother_, her_ boyfriend_, the man they both knew, he's dead and his body was going to be buried in the ground before dusk.

It's her that speaks first. She whispers a quiet, barely audible "I'm sorry," before she drops her gaze.

He wants to look at her, say 'me too,' and maybe give her a sad smile, but he nods instead. It's all he can do.

Just being in the girl's presence was causing him flashbacks of pain. He's remembering those conversations about the future, and maybe his brother had had similar ones with the girl standing beside him, but both possessed little pieces. Maybe he had more of the pieces of his brother, but there were some things about his brother that he could guarantee only this girl knew.

"He'd hate this." They're the only word's he can stand to get out without choking.

That's when he sees the tears. They were hidden in her eyes, but now he can see them, plain as day. She lets one—just one—spill over, and it's almost heart breaking. "I know."

Those few words were all that really needed to be said, and though he feels compelled to say more, he can't think of anything. Not one word. It doesn't seem to matter, though. They stand in silence for a few minutes, and when it's clear that he's not going to say anything else while she wouldn't have been able to if she'd tried, she turns and walks away.

One last glance is all she gets before her mother takes her by the hand and leads her away, and she doesn't look back.

Suddenly, it's empty. The entire field, as if nothing had ever happened. As if there hadn't just been a group of forty people mourning over his brother's open grave. In some sick, twisted way, it almost makes him feel better.

He knows the grave won't be filled for another little while, but it still takes all his will power to take even a few steps towards the abomination. He doesn't want to see the casket, doesn't want to see the open hole, knowing he'll just imagine them lowering his brother's body into it and leaving him to rot. Another few steps and he can't avoid it, looking for anything to distract him from the images already plaguing his mind. His eyes settle on the enlarged photograph resting at the head of the box and it's almost worse than if he'd been staring straight into the casket. The photo is one that he guesses is a school picture and it looks nothing like the little brother he'd raised. Sure, it was his nose, his chin, even his unruly hair, but it wasn't him. Not his eyes. Not his smile.

He'd memorized the real smile, and it looked nothing like the picture.

Suddenly, it was impossible to think of the future. Even a future five minutes from now was much too far away. If he's being honest with himself, any future after four days ago is too much for him to handle.

There are hunts to deal with, cases to solve, and the pressing matter of their father's disappearance, yet he can't seem to find it in himself to give a damn. Six days ago, he'd been debating on coming to Stanford for his brother's help finding their father. Five days ago, he was driving halfway across the country at illegal speeds just to get to California quicker. Four days ago, he'd woken up to his cell phone ringing, and it only took two words for his soul to splinter.

"_He's dead_."

Nothing would ever be able to fix that, because the only thing he can hear when he goes to bed at night is his little brother's voice whispering in his ear. "_You were too late._"

He can't imagine leaving his brother, but at the same time there's no way he could stay here.

"Maybe I'll go south. Head into Mexico for a bit." No one could hear him, no one would respond, but it felt better when he says it out loud. Let's his little brother know where he'll be, if he needs to find him. "Or I could head up north into Canada. Check out the hunts up there. Or East. East sounds nice."

Hell, for all he knows, next week he could be in Scotland, or Maine. But there is _no way_ he was staying.

There's nothing to keep him here anymore. His mom had died years ago, his dad has gone missing—probably dead as well—and now his little brother too? A loaded barrel between the eyes was starting to look really good right about now.

For a moment, though everything in the world is compelling him to leave, he finds he can't abandon his baby brother's grave. Turning his back would feel like a betrayal. Leaving would be like saying he was moving on.

He would crawl in the casket if he could. If he had the guts to open up the lid; he'd do it. Really, he would.

Instead, he digs through his pockets. Pulls out a cell phone, a fake driver's licence, and the keys to his beloved Impala. A gum wrapper. A gas station receipt.

He thinks of leaving the keys to the Impala, but he doesn't have another ride. He considers running back to the car and grabbing his brother's favourite gun and a pair of throwing knives, just in case, but when he looks up he can see workers in the distance. The men coming to bury his brother. He wouldn't have enough time.

It takes him a split second to think of it, and another half second later, he's laying the object across the lid. The gold pendant slides, but he catches it just in time. Not wanting it to slip and fall again, he ties it tightly around one of the hand rails, so tight that they won't be able to get it off even if they tried.

Resting one hand on the casket he closes his eyes and let's a single tear escape from between his lashes. It falls, rolls along the curved top, and then is gone.

So was he.

"Goodbye, Sammy."

He doesn't know how he'd gotten here, has just kept driving and driving until the sun had gone down and the last light had turned out, and then he pulls over and cries.

Somehow, the empty passenger seat feels so _wrong_, like a black hole swallowing up everything in its path, refusing to be ignored. It's been empty for nearly three years, but he's always had the illusion that someday his brother would be back in that passenger seat, directing them through back roads and researching the latest hunt. It had seemed inevitable, really, because that was just the way it had always been. Why would that ever change?

Now, the fact that that passenger seat would always be vacant was driving him mad. Enough that for a few moments he's even contemplating ditching the Impala.

No memories at all would be so much worse than a few bad memories can ever be. At least in the Impala, he can say he remembers.

Though it might have been better—easier, really—to have no memories at all.

When he finally becomes aware of where exactly he is, he discovers that he is still in California, still in that stupid town that he's promised he'll never return to after this.

Staring at the house across the street, he realizes he recognizes the girl sitting on the front porch, though it's almost three o'clock in the morning. He sits there for a moment or two before getting out of the car. The door opens with an audible creek, and shuts with a loud slam, but the girl doesn't change her position. As his footsteps take him closer to her, he swears he sees her arm twitch, but he can't be sure. It's only when he takes a seat beside her, handing her the white flower he took off his brother's casket and his half-empty flask, that she dares meet his eyes. They are void, emotionless, and he can tell they're a mirror of his own.

She chuckles as she stares at the flower, but that too is void of any feeling. "A daisy." She shrugs her shoulders, smiling sadly at the petals. "He said he hated roses."

When she started talking, it was a surprise. Her voice is calm and even, cool and vaguely indifferent. "I know who you are." She doesn't look at him, doesn't check to see if he's surprised or angry or shocked. He's none of those things. Just sad. "You're Dean. You're his big brother."

_I used to be_, he wants to tell her. _I don't know who I am anymore_.

He's used to it by now, though, because that's the way it has always been. It had never been just, "You're Dean Winchester". When he was young, it had been, You're Dean, Mary and John's boy. Then, You're Dean, the son of that woman who'd burned to death in that house fire. Before long, he'd become, You're Dean, John the hunter's boy. To most everyone now, he was one thing.

You're Dean, Sam's big brother.

Now, without Sam, it feels like there shouldn't be Dean either.

"He . . ." She can't say his name. Neither can he. "He talked about you, sometimes. More than he talked about anything else from his past. He said that you'd practically raised him." Here, she glances up at him, and there's something akin to appreciation in her eyes. "You were really something to him. He talked about you like you were the most important person on earth."

There is a hesitant pause before she speaks next. Her voice became small and vulnerable, and it takes all he has to not curse at his brother for leaving this girl alone. For leaving them both alone.

"I miss him already."

The statement twists his heart and chest in a million different directions, pulling him between immeasurable sorrow and immense fury. "Me too."

She twists the flower around in her hands for something to do and hides her face behind her hair, and though he feels the same need to fidget or at least get up and walk, he was trained better than that and his self-control holds him in place.

"He really loved you, ya know." She picks a petal off one by one, and he can see her fingers glistening with tears.

Setting an uncertain hand on her shoulder, he says, "He loved you, too, Jess."

Her body begins to shake with sobs, and he gathers her carefully in his arms and holds her while she cries. It's intimate, a little uncomfortable, and more than slightly awkward, but they both need it, though neither of them will ever care to admit.

"Do you want to come with me?"

His remark is completely spontaneous, but to her, it's the best plan in the world. If she could have felt enthusiasm in that moment, he would have said it was like a kid at Christmas time, but her eyes are pure determination and sadness. He doesn't even have the whole sentence out before she's standing up, almost itching to get going, away from this town, this state, maybe even the whole damn country. The farther away the better. The feeling was mutual.

He wants to ask her if she needs anything, but he knows the answer to that question. Everything would just serve as an unnecessary reminder.

He knows that at some point, he'll have to go and dig it up again—the casket. Make sure his body was salted and burned, because it's what he would have wanted. Right now was too soon.

When they get in the car, he looks over at the passenger seat, and it looks _wrong just wrong_ but at the same time, almost right. She isn't a replacement, but she's better than nothing, and seeing that seat empty might have driven him to suicide before long. Still, it is an option, but the thought is vague.

Starting the engine, Dean glances at his passenger. "Where to?"

It's a broad question, but one that Jess could have answered easily. _Where?_ Her honest answer is next to impossible and involves a stint with either a loaded gun or a very high building, so she replies with the next best thing.

"Anywhere but here."

Dean knows that feeling well.

**AN:** **So, this is my first fanfiction in a little bit, since I haven't been writing much, but I'm really proud of it. I literally had the idea on my computer for close to two years, but only got around to writing in a few weeks ago, and then had to wait another few weeks for my best friend to edit it. Thankfully, she's amazing, and so here it is. :) I hope you're as pleased with it as I am.**


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